


One Thread Pulled

by Syntaniel



Series: Threads In the Pattern [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, there'sonechapterofsmutbutitseasilyskippedifitsnotyourthing hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:31:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9153715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaniel/pseuds/Syntaniel
Summary: When the Inseparables are separated, they return to find something very important has changed. And of course they cannot leave it rest until they're all back together again. If they can find their way back...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a... sidestep of sorts from my Threads of Fate trilogy. Can be read without reading the others. Athos chose wisely and so the pattern was set, the end written. Which means all those other deaths become... not the end but an adventure on the way. This is the first of them.  
> I promise, this time, no one important dies. ;)

"Gentlemen," the sharp edge of Treville's voice echoing down made the few Musketeers remaining in the courtyard wince and scatter. In Treville's office, the Inseparables tried to look meek and only succeeded in looking sheepish as the Captain stalked around them to the open door. He inclined his head stiffly in a way that did nothing to hide his fury as he gestured, "what is this?"

Wary, Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances before Porthos answered helpfully, "A door."

Over to the side, d'Artagnan stifled a smile and Athos closed his eyes on a sigh as Treville smiled without humor, "So at least you know what it's called." Flinty eyes narrowed at them as he opened the door wider, "I presume you are also aware of how it is used." Any pretense of humor dropped from his face. "Commonly used for exiting buildings. You open the door, go through, close door." The echo of the door slamming shut resounded through the room but Treville's glare didn't ease. "There's also the concept of knocking," he added sardonically, "but I understand that's advanced."

Cautiously, Aramis opened his mouth but Athos was faster and stomped on his foot. Unfortunately, he was too far away to stop the words coming out of Porthos' mouth, "Yes, sir. We know how t' use a door."

It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Treville loomed over them, his voice booming, "Then what possessed you to go out the window and land on top of a caravan?!"

 

Aramis couldn't have stopped the words coming out of his mouth if he tried, "Well, we could hardly have landed on the street, sir. We would have injured ourselves." He flashed his most charming smile.

Treville's face flushed red, "Which would have been preferable to destroying the contents of caravan bearing gifts for the KING!" All four Musketeers winced. 

"Sir," Athos started, his tone placating, "if I could explain..."

The Captain cut him off with a short sharp chop of his arm. "I don't want to hear it." He sat heavily behind his desk, glaring at the papers in his hands as he sorted them. For a moment, as he looked down, the fury on his face gave way to passing weariness. Catching the look, d'Artagnan straightened, his own gaze sharpening, but the others appeared to have missed the brief moment. Indeed, d'Artagnan was barely sure of what he'd seen himself, it was gone so fast, replaced by a pale anger. "As you can imagine, the King is seriously displeased. He has decided that you three will be escorting the Comte Bernais on his annual sojourn to inventory the monasteries along the coast." 

Porthos groaned into Aramis' shoulder but Athos' gaze narrowed as he caught on a word, "Three, sir?"

Treville did not look up from his papers, "d'Artagnan has been seconded to the King at his request for the duration."

The three inseparables glared at the Captain while d'Artagnan watched speculatively, searching the Captain's face for whatever he'd seen moments before. When Treville did not immediately provide further explanation, Aramis ventured to ask, "Why is d'Artagnan not being sent with us, sir?"

Porthos sounded affronted, "Yeah, 'e went out a window too." 

The Captain gave him a look that was withering in its disdain. "Possibly," Aramis winced at the tone in his voice, "Because he wasn't seen landing on top of the king's carvan and so remains in favor." Athos opened his mouth to protest but Treville shook his head sharply. "These orders are from the King. There's nothing I can do. You three will accompany Comte Bernais tomorrow and d'Artagnan will report to the King before sunrise."

All three men winced at the harshness in his voice. Aramis and Porthos looked openly unhappy as they stood and filed out, with Athos grim faced beside them. D'Artagnan hesitated a moment, speculation still lingering across his brow, but the hard look on the Captain's face stopped him. With a short bow, he sprinted to catch up to the others in the courtyard. 

Aramis was already groaning, "Comte Bernais is the biggest bore at Court. This is going to be interminable! He thinks even visitors to the monastery must be celibate!"

"An' he don' allow gambling," Porthos added morosely, "Not even a friendly like game o' cards." 

"Sounds serious," d'Artagnan manfully restrained a smile but whatever amusement had touched his voice fell when he looked at Athos and saw the truth of the upcoming separation written on his face.

Athos' blue eyes were stormy as he met d'Artagnan's, "Three weeks will certainly be penance enough." His brow furrowed as he looked at the Gascon, "I mislike splitting up. Who knows what trouble the King will get you into?"

Remembering the odd looks he'd caught from Treville, d'Artagnan pushed his own misgivings aside and forced his voice to be light, "You're worrying too much, Athos. I'll likely be spending the next three weeks on guard duty at the Palace and attempting to teach the King how to fence." 

Athos grunted skeptically but didn't protest further as d'Artagnan's shoulder bumped against his. Porthos and Aramis' laughter echoed out around them as d'Artagnan ducked his dark head to touch his forehead briefly to Athos'. "Till duty or death, Athos." The younger man's smile was captivating, "This, I believe, would fall under duty."

With a growl, Athos bumped his shoulder back sharply, "So long as it stays that way." The fierceness in his blue eyes softened for just a moment, "Till duty or death." 

Both men started when Porthos clapped a hand on their shoulder, his broad grin tempered just slightly with unease at the upcoming parting, "I think we deserve a drink before set'ing off." The grin slid into a rakish smile, "Maybe a few drinks."

Athos tucked the sound of their laughter around the disquiet in his chest unaware that beside him, d'Artagnan was doing the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The world seemed hushed in the space before dawn when d'Artagnan was making his way through the Palace. Oh there were servants out and about but fewer than during the day proper and those who were moving were well trained enough to keep the silence as they went about their morning duties. D'Artagnan's boots were butter soft with age and made no noise on the marble floors. The lack of bustle gave the whole thing a detached unreal quality as if he were a ghost haunting the halls. 

D'Artagnan shook off the feeling, chiding himself for the melancholy when he'd only just seen his friends off in the courtyard. The King was waiting and, no matter how out of character this early morning meeting was, it wouldn't do to be late. 

Except it wasn't only the King waiting. When d'Artagnan arrived in the small audience room, it was not only the King who greeted him, but Treville as well. The scant candle light left the room shadowed in the lack of windows. It suited Louis, gave him a maturity that he usually lacked. But it was the Captain's face that gave d'Artagnan pause. 

Treville stared at him, not looking him in the eye, with a face as blank as parchment. The man had never given d'Artagnan a look like that before and it made him wary of what was to come. He came to a stop before the desk, standing at an easy attention that belied the tension in the room. "You summoned me, your majesty."

Louis looked at him for a long moment, hesitancy playing over his face before he spoke, "We have need of you, d'Artagnan."

Though d'Artagnan waited, he did not continue and d'Artagnan bowed, as much to break the pause as anything. "As always, I'm at your majesty's service."

The phrase made Treville chuff a laugh, breaking the horrible blank expression into a weary hint of a smile, "You've been hanging around Aramis too much." He glanced over at the King, who nodded fractionally. "As you know, several months ago, the old treasurer died. It was not suspicious or unexpected and his Majesty appointed a new exchequer to take his place. After a few weeks, the new man came to notice some... irregularities in the regions of Metz and Verdun." The Captain took a breath, turning towards the candle scone as if fascinated by the flame. "The amounts were small and varied. Multiple townships. Could have been accounting errors."

"You're not talking to me about accounting errors." d'Artagnan was certain of that. 

Treville shook his head without turning back. "The exchequer came to me because once collected, the sums are brought to Paris by..."

"The Red Guard," d'Artagnan breathed.

The King studiously was not watching the pair as Treville nodded, finally turning back to face him. "If it were a simple matter of missing sums, I would speak to Rochefort and let him deal with it. But we have been hearing... rumors." 

D'Artagnan cocked his head, "Rumors, sir?"

"I have reason to believe that this is more than a problem of simple greed." The words came slowly, like the Captain did not wish to believe them himself. "There are rumors of rebellion. Credible ones. That portion of France is new to the King's law and several of the townships were not pleased to find themselves now subject to the King's taxes. We think the problems are centered there."

Finally the King turned his attention back to them, his face creased with worry. "I am not inclined to send an army after our own subjects based on a rumor but I will not have rebellion in France. The Spanish would see it as an open invitation to invade and we would be lost."

D'Artagnan nodded, resolutely straightening his spine, "What do you need from me?" The other two men exchanged a glance that had him narrowing his dark eyes, "And why was it necessary to send the others away?" 

Treville winced at the insight though he did not deny it. "As far as the garrison is concerned, and the world for that matter, you rode with them and the Comte. When they return, they'll report that you were injured and are recuperating at one of the monasteries on the Western coast."

One dark eyebrow raised skeptically in a way Treville was sure he'd learned off of Porthos, "They wouldn't have kept this from me. And I doubt they would have agreed to any plan where I go off on my own."

The Captain shook his head, "They won't know till near their return. Comte Bernais has a missive for them and will give it to them when it's time." When they cannot turn back, went unsaid. 

"Clearly I'm not actually recuperating in a monastery," d'Artagnan's tone was wry as he crossed his arms over his chest, "Where am I actually going to be?"

With a sweep of his arm, Treville gestured to the map on the desk, "To start with, Metz. Or at least the area around there. Take it slow going out there. You'll need to alter your appearance and come up with some sort of background. I trust you to think up reason enough to be mad at the Crown." 

"A wandering sellsword," d'Artagnan murmured thinking of Pepin and all that came after and nodding slowly. "You want me to try and infiltrate them. Let the Red Guard recruit me."

Treville gave a short nod, "Collect as much information as you can. We need to know who the ringleaders are, what their plan is, how well armed they are, and..." he cast a glance at the King before continuing, "how far up the problem goes."

Louis blanched at the insinuation but didn't contradict it. "You'll have whatever you need of the Crown and can take whatever action you feel necessary but this rebellion must never begin." His usually limpid eyes burned as he caught d'Artagnan's gaze, "It must be stopped. I will not die as my father did or lose any inch of land that he gained."

Mutely, d'Artagnan nodded and both men watched as the King swirled out of the room. Chewing on the edge of his lip, d'Artagnan's mind was already churning with possibilities as he turned back to the map. "What's your plan for once I have the information?"

Jaw working tensely, Treville answered shortly, "Get it to me or the King, however you can."

Taken aback, d'Artagnan looked up from a fall of dark hair skeptically, "No one will believe a Red Guard had any reason at all to contact you. It would be far too suspicious and we're already going to be stretching our luck thin as it is." He shook his head as he straightened, pinning Treville with a look, "This is not our best plan, Captain."

The Captain didn't bother to deny it, "Because of your origins, you're still the least known and least connected of the regiment. Athos is horrible at infiltration work, Aramis tends to get himself in trouble with the first woman he comes across and his marksmanship is too good for anyone to believe he's not career military, and Porthos is too well known to the Red Guard. There's no disguising a man of his description. With you, we have the best chance. And there's no one else the King would trust."

Lightning seemed to flash across d'Artagnan's dark eyes as a plan coalesced in his brain. "They might not be useful as the infiltrators, but they may be of use after all." He cocks his head, "They're going to come after me anyway. Might as well give them something to do."

"What are you thinking?" The wariness in Treville's voice made d'Artagnan look up with a wounded look. "Forgive me my concern," the Captain said sardonically, "But your last plan involved you getting shot." 

D'Artagnan shrugged, as unconcerned about it now as he had been then. "It worked." He leaned over the map, pulling over the nearby quill and parchment, "And so will this."

"I can already see that I'm going to regret this," Treville muttered as he watched the younger man start writing notes.

"We're not exactly overwhelmed with choices, Captain. Besides, we've worked with less."

"Not comforting."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for comments and kudos so far! I truly appreciate them. And apparently they're very motivating since I have another chapter ready in less than a week. ;)

D'Artagnan was on the road before the sun reached its zenith. His pauldron left safely behind in the garrison, he stripped off his jacket as he rode, letting the sun beat down on his skin. Within two days, the sun had turned his skin a darker rich olive. He spent his nights by the fire using rocks to put some deliberate wear on his clothes and gear to lend some verisimilitude to his wandering sellsword story. 

He stopped shaving the day he left and, by the third day, his jaw was darkened with the scruff of a beard. His fingers itched to trim it but he let it be, disguising the youth of his face. On the fourth day, with no small regret, he took his knife to his hair, watching the long black strands fall in the dirt in disarray and shuddering at the feel of the wind on his bare neck. Between the near shorn hair on his head and the scruff at his jaw, d'Artagnan's features took on a sharp lean look, almost hungry, that he emphasized by keeping himself on short rations. 

On the fifth day, when he dressed, d'Artangnan deliberately buckled his sword to his other hip. He was passable with his left hand, though it was more economical bouts of force than the grace he had with his right - he was not yet as truly ambidextrous as Athos - but it would serve well enough to disguise any who might recognize him from his style of fighting. 

By the sixth day, complete with the dust and stains of travel, skin nearly sunburnt with deliberate exposure, d'Artagnan was as disguised as he was going to get without artifice. He was certain the King could not pick him out of a crowd as he was. Even Treville would likely overlook him. The others wouldn't. Athos wouldn't. The stray thoughts crossed his mind at his meager fire but d'Artagnan ruthlessly pushed them away as he set about scuffing up the tack and bridle. He couldn't think about them now, couldn't think about him now, and be the person that he needed to be. He had two weeks before they would even be told what was going on and he needed to be well started before they arrived to play their parts if his plan was going to work. 

On afternoon of the seventh day, the palisade gates of the former Republic of Metz came into view, with the towering spires of the Cathedrale Saint-Etienne over them, and d'Artagnan did what any newly arrived sellsword would do - headed for the nearest tavern. 

++

Eight days after they'd left the garrison, Athos was seriously debating the merits of shooting Aramis at dinner. It might not get him sent back to Paris, but at least he could drink in peace at night without having to listen to the Spaniard bemoan every buxom, smiling tavern wrench that passed their way. He lifted the wine bottle to his lips, silently grateful that this at least was one vice the Comte both accepted and indulged in, before a shadow of movement caught his eye. 

Athos put the bottle down with an infinitely weary sigh, "Porthos." He didn't bother to say more but blue eyes glared implacably across the table at the bigger man.

Porthos' innocent expression dissolved under the force of his disapproval and he groaned in protest as he deftly threw the purse he just picked on the table in front of the man it belonged to. "I 'ave t'do something, Athos," he complained, fingering the pouch that held his cards, "an' he's just going to lose it anyway."

Athos fought the urge to put his head down on the table, "We are already being punished, Porthos. I do not want to see what the Captain will come up with if Comte Bernais takes offense and reports us to the King." 

Aramis laid a conciliatory hand on Porthos' back. "I know my friend," he commiserated, giving a dramatic sigh and flouncing his curls as he leaned into the bigger man, "This is hell." 

\--

On the other side of the country, rather literally, d'Artagnan surreptitiously eyed the crowd at the tavern for the second night. There, that man. He assessed the man's bulk as he sipped his ale. He needed to establish a reputation quickly, preferably without too much damage to himself. That man swaggering in his arrogance with his sword lazily hung about his hips, clanging against chairs and stools as he accosted any person - male or female - imprudent enough to get near him; he should do nicely. 

\--

With another glare, Athos had gone back to ignoring them as he lifted up the wine bottle, watching the contents through the dim candlelight, before taking another sip. He wondered, not for the first time, what d'Artagnan was doing. A vision came to mind of the younger man 'fencing' with the King - all of his not inconsiderable skill turned to trying to convince Louis that he wasn't hopeless with a blade. Athos almost smiled, only to have it fall away as his mind presented him with another scene - the younger man, returning to the garrison alone, eating the same way. He knew it likely wasn't true. D'Artagnan was not the misanthrope he was; the younger man had made several friends among the Musketeers outside of the Inseparables. But still... 

Aramis caught his gaze and smiled gently, "He'll be fine, Athos." 

Swiping a new bottle off a passing tray, Porthos toasted them both with it before adding, "The whelp will be bored silly. An' we'll be home soon. Less than a fortnight now." Athos didn't say anything but took the bottle from him with another glare and settled back against the post. 

\--

D'Artagnan ignored the ache in his side from the last hit as he dogged the boulder like fist aimed at his head. He only just remembered to lead with his left hand but fortunately the punch still landed, sinking deep into the man's stomach, forcing his fetid breath out in a rush. His opponent crumpled to the ground and d'Artagnan stood there panting, still caught in that last moment of the fight, until the barkeep appeared at his side, thanking him for the kindness in rescuing the waitress, a cousin. D'Artagnan let the man draw him over to the bar and ladle him up a bowl of stew, falling on the food with unfeigned hunger. 

\--

More than halfway through the inventory, on the twelfth day, and Athos wasn't sure they were all going to make it to the end in one piece. Aramis had been gone for a suspiciously long time (the Mother Superior of the attached abbey was also nowhere in sight but Athos was determinedly not thinking about that) and he'd found Porthos scaling the roof earlier that morning 'for practice.'

Fortunately, so far at least, the Comte either had not noticed or was choosing to ignore them as he steadfastly persisted in his careful inventory. "I need more ink," The man called imperiously as he flipped a page in his inventory book. Athos could feel a pounding in his head signaling a burgeoning headache as he sent one of the abbey's novices for more supplies. 

\--

"I'm told you're a handy man in a fight." The man's face was shadowed but the blood red tunic of the red guard was unmistakable even in the dim light of the tavern. His two companions seemed occupied with their drinks but d'Artagnan wasn't fooled. Their eyes slanted to him and their hands rested on the short knives - more useful in a bar fight than their swords.

D'Artagnan cocked his head slightly, forcing a neutral expression even as his heart raced. "Have to be if I'm going to eat." He'd let the smoke of the fire roughen his voice over the past four nights in the tavern and the words came out gravelly. 

The man studied him in turn before giving him a wicked little smile, "We can always use a man who can fight. What's your name? What's your story?" 

Keep it simple, keep it easy, his mind chanted at him as he went easily into the cover story he'd devised. "Charles Garnier." D'Artagnan canted his head in the slightest of nods. "My pere died, heart trouble, some years ago." He let himself remember how he had been after his father's death - the bitterness, the rage - let it fill his face, "The Crown's taxes took the farm and I've been fending for myself since." D'Artagnan swallowed the rage and gave the man a wicked grin, "Turns out I'm better with a sword than a plow." He gave a shrug, "Been guarding merchant caravans and stupid noblemen ever since. Keeping on the lookout for something better."

"Well, the guard can certainly offer better than that." The other man nodded as he finally sat down across from him. "Iean Muldrac." He signaled the passing waitress for a drink and then turned back to his evaluation of d'Artagnan. "And there's always... other opportunities if you work out. You interested?"

D'Artangnan considered the man for a long moment before nodding with a laugh to disguise the sick swirl of his stomach, "At this point, so long as it includes food, fighting, and a fair amount of wine, I'm on board."

Muldrac tipped his drink to him in salute, "That, I can promise you." 

**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently this is going to be a story of shorter but more frequent updates. Thanks as always for the comments and kudos! They are very appreciated and very motivating. ;)

Nineteen days. D'Artagnan tried not to count them but his brain didn't seem to be listening. Two more days before his friends returned to the garrison to find him absent. Ruthlessly, d'Artagnan forced his mind back to the efforts at hand. Being in the Red Guard was nothing like being in the Musketeers, especially at an outpost like this. There was no brotherhood, no unity, just small groups of men fighting for rarely given recognition and petty rewards like first chance at the food. 

The man who had recruited him, Muldrac, kept a close eye on him and seemed to glory in throwing him against other Guards. He called it 'training' but there was no effort to teach or measure d'Artagnan's skill. It only served to make him enemies among the already divided guard. 

The only stroke of fortune he'd had so far was that, this far out on the border, he hadn't run into any Guards who had been in Paris recently. But d'Artagnan knew he was on borrowed time. There was a pit in his stomach that seemed to grow with every short word and cheap shot. He was keeping up - his sword flashed in his left hand in the open field that served as their yard, delivering short brutal blows, gaining a reputation for a vicious efficiency. In barehand fights, he pulled out some of the tricks Porthos had taught him. Grappling wasn't his strongest suit but he was quick and flexible and with those tricks, he could hold his own and stave off any serious hurt. Despite that, he ended his days sore and tired, bleeding from minor injuries more often than not. But Muldrac had invited him out for drinks twice, carefully sounding out his opinions on the Crown after a few drinks without realizing that d'Artagnan drank half of what his companions did. 

He could sense that he was getting closer but Muldrac still didn't trust him with anything out of the ordinary. And so far, just shy of a week in, he had yet to meet anyone higher than Muldrac. That was suspicious enough, given the man's lack of rank. There was no way he way stealing without someone higher up noticing and d'Artagnan didn't think he was the brains that he had been sent to find. He knew there was a Captain at the outpost, but the man lived in town and apparently left much of the management of the outpost to Muldrac. 

He had to get them to trust him. He had to get further. Good thing I left instructions for the others.   
\--  
Two days. It would take them more than a day to return to Paris with all of the Comte's baggage and Athos was more than ready to be on the road in that direction. He was quite willing to forgo seeing another monastery for the rest of his days as well. He just needed the Comte to return from the store room and say that he had finally finished this last inventory and they could start the journey back to Paris on the morrow. That was all he wanted. 

Without turning his gaze from the door to the store room, his hand shot out to cuff Aramis on the back of the head. The Spaniard gave a cry of offense, his hand automatically smoothing his curls back in order and Athos cut him a short glare, "I could feel you eyeing the novice over there." Blue eyes returned to their vigil as he added sternly, "Leave him to his studies."

Porthos chuckled from his seat at the table, his knife flicking over the tiny piece of wood he'd taken to carving after Athos promised quite sincerely to break all of his limbs if he caught him wandering off again. "Don't worry, fearless leader. We won' do anyt'ing to stall getting out of here at this point."

Athos did not respond. How he had managed not to murder them these past three weeks, he did not know, but they were all still alive when Comte Bernais entered the room just past midday. The absence of the Comte's ever present ledger threw Athos for a moment and he promised any deity that might be listening that if the man had found a reason to delay their return, he would use him to fertilize the abbey garden and damn the consequences. It took him a moment then, to realize the Comte held a small square of folded parchment. And another moment to recognize the familiar seal of the Captain of the Musketeers. 

"I will be staying here as planned." The Comte was saying absently as he held the small square out to Athos. "But I was advised to tell you that your escort duties are finished once you read that parchment."

Athos had already put the Comte from his mind, ignoring the man's departure, as he ripped open the parchment. Porthos straightened from his lazy slouch as Athos' brow darkened in confusion. "What's it say, Athos?" 

Tapping the parchment against his hand, Athos considered, "Treville wants us to return discreetly. Speak to no one." The parchment crunched in his hand as dawning anger clenched his hand into a fist. "Get your things, we're leaving now." 

Aramis put a hand on Athos' arm, "What is it?"

Athos shook his head, shrugging off the comforting gesture. "The Comte said he was staying 'as planned.' And this certainly did not come last night or today - we would have seen the messenger. So either he's had it all along or it was here, waiting. This has been waiting for us for nearly three weeks. We're not being told to return discretely because he has a new mission waiting for us." Blue eyes were tempest of fury and worry, it was almost as if he was pleading with Aramis to see something so clear to him. "He's safeguarding a mission already going on."

The confusion on the faces of the others' cleared. "D'Artagnan," Aramis breathed. 

Porthos was already on his feet and moving, "The horses will be fresh; we can make Paris before dawn if we hurry."

Neither of them questioned it, neither tried to tell him that he was jumping to conclusions or that it could be something else, and Athos felt gratitude swell in his chest as they moved out. Thank you. 

\--


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, the kudos and comments are very much appreciated and thank y'all for following this story.

D'Artagnan knew it was a dream because he was warm. Warm in a way he hadn't been in more than three weeks now, since that last night in the tavern with his friends. _Firelight flickered around him and the air rang with Aramis' laughter as he tried to convince the barmaid to remain on his lap. Laughter bubbled up in d'Artagnan's chest as the Spaniard swung the smiling woman around till she was pinned between him and an equally grinning Porthos. The obliging woman darted a kiss onto Porthos' cheek and then artfully slipped out of Aramis' grasp as he feigned offense._

_Bright eyes looked over to Athos at his side to see if he was equally amused and his breath caught as d'Artagnan found the older man staring at him over his wine with a look that could only be described as fond. He'd seen a shadow of that look before but there was a depth to it now, that was new since they started this thing between them a few weeks before. Or maybe it had always been there and he hadn't allowed himself to notice, he wasn't sure. He didn't care. D'Artagnan could feel an answering smile curve his lips. There was darkness creeping in, a slow creeping awareness of the pending separation. But it wasn't there yet. In that moment, there was just warmth, blue eyes, and the shine of that smile._

D'Artagnan clung to the dream even as stark coldness started to seep back into his bones. He tried to wrap the memory around him, to keep the warmth, but it slipped away as he opened his eyes on a sigh. It had been the same since he'd arrived. During the day, he could be Charles Garnier, he could keep on the mission, ingratiating himself with Muldrac and keeping an eye out for the next link. But at night, at night when he could no longer keep his eyes open, the dreams would come.

Frustration bubbled up in him. It wasn't even as if he was dreaming of the exciting times. There was no gunpowder flash in his dreams. No sharp clang of metal. Instead it was the small moments. The solid bulk of Porthos at his side. The laughter in Aramis' voice as he recounted his latest conquest. Athos' rare smile. He shook himself briefly before packing them away in the back of his mind as he reached for his shirt and the garish red tunic. Another day, another lie to tell.  
__

"Where is d'Artagnan?"

Treville sighed as he entered his office, closing the door on the first hints of dawn. "I suppose I should not be surprised that you somehow arrived a day early." He didn't turn to them immediately but took his seat. Recognizing it as cowardice, the Captain braced himself and looked up.

It had been Aramis who had spoken first, he was nearly sure, the hot temper of the Spaniard raging clearly across his face from where he stood at Athos' right, his fists clenched on his hips. Porthos' flanked Athos' left side, looming with his arms crossed and glaring darkly at Treville. They had clearly only just arrived, the dust of the road still evident on their leathers. When the silence stretched, it was Athos who broke it, his words tight and his expression locked down like he was bleeding, "Where. Is. D'Artagnan?"

Treville finally met his eyes, "On a mission for the King." Athos' lips contorted into a snarl but Treville held up his hand to forestall the explosion, "There was no choice. There are a limited amount of men I have who can be used for undercover missions and, for now, d'Artagnan is the best of them. There's rumors of rebellion in the east and possible traitors in the Red Guard. It's not something that could be ignored."

Athos' face had turned flinty as the Captain spoke, "Where?" When Treville didn't immediately respond, Athos made a short sharp motion with his hand and spoke again, with slow deliberation, "Where?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose with one gloved hand, Treville wondered absently if he'd lost control over this now or three weeks before when he sent them away. But it didn't matter. "He knew you'd follow him." He sighed, unlocking a drawer on his desk to retrieve a parchment. "He's planned for it in fact." Athos expression remained unchanged though Aramis and Porthos both grinned at the comment. Treville tossed the parchment across the desk to them, "He's in Metz. Or at least, that's where he started."

The Musketeers were already standing, Athos' jaw clenching as he read the parchment. "Aramis, get supplies. Porthos, we'll need fresh horses." He didn't bother asking Treville's leave and if that hurt the older man, well, he had known what he was doing when he had started this.

"As far as the world knows, he was with you and you're all recuperating at a seaside monastery after being struck ill. I'll keep that up as long as I can." There was something of an apology in the Captain's expression though he would never voice it, "You'd best be gone before the yard wakes up." He knows that deep down, they - all of them but especially Athos - understand the choice he had to make. He also knows that forgiveness will depend on d'Artagnan's welfare when they finally catch up to him. "Godspeed."  
__

Nearly a month at this godforsaken place and d'Artagnan finally feels like he's making progress. And it's such a random thing. He would laugh if he remembered how. After weeks of picking fights, of throwing punches, and standing by while the Guard bullied and stole from innocent townspeople, it's such a random thing. If he'd just been looking for evidence of stolen taxes, he'd be done already because they're not even hiding that.

But he can feel that there's more here. Muldrac's eyes follow him too carefully for casual interest and he's pinpointed about a dozen others that go off on errands that can't be explained and meet in dark corners in the tavern. The never ending testing of every guardsman makes it clear that there are things that they need, skills that they don't dare yet ask if he possesses. And it's wearing on him like it's an endurance test of just how long he'll comply.

So when he's assigned to destroy a shop that refused to give Muldrac whatever he was asking for that day, d'Artagnan doesn't think twice of dumping out some powder into a small pot - going through the motions slowly so the shopkeepers have time to run out the back - running a short line of rope to be a fuse and walking away. In the aftermath of his experience with Vadim, he'd made the others teach him everything they knew about bombs and he'd used that knowledge so the resulting explosion was as much smoke as fire but it made an effective point.

The nearly equal mix of calculation and glee in Muldrac's expression when he walks out strikes d'Artagnan like a fist. _Of course_ , he thinks almost bitterly. _That would be the skill they were missing. After all, what revolution is complete without explosions?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been futzing with this for over a week so here. have it. I hope you enjoy it. ;)

 

It took them nearly another week to get to Metz. Athos was stone faced with barely banked rage by the time they could see the cathedral spires in the distance but they had already pushed the horses to the edge of their endurance. He'd gone silent the further they got from Paris, withdrawn and grave, and the others spent the last two days casting about worried glances that they thought he didn't see. Every second's delay felt like an eternity and some deep dark part of him was positive that a month was already too long.

 

But if it had not already been too long, if it was not already too late, then d'Artagnan needed them. The younger man had been smart enough not to leave a plan - there had been no way for him to realistically make a plan so far in advance without knowing the conditions - but to suggest that they create certain circumstances on their arrival. If everything was going smoothly on his end, he could take advantage of those circumstances and hopefully communicate a plan now that he presumably knew more. If everything was not going smoothly... Athos cut off that line of thought ruthlessly. D'Artagnan was reckless, yes, but clever and he had the Devil's own luck. In all the crazy they had been through so far, he had never failed to find a way. 

 

The gates of Metz could be seen in the distance when Aramis clasped a hand on his shoulder before pulling away to scout for a decent sniper's perch, as d'Artagnan had requested. Porthos had peeled off a few miles back so he could approach from a different direction and arrive at a later time. D'Artagnan made it clear he was banking on his very distinctiveness so he planned to make an entrance of it. It was a good setup - thinking far enough ahead and leaving everyone enough room to accommodate anything that's come up in between. And if Athos was in part quietly furious because his directive is to watch, play a drunk and be backup/messenger/distraction/whatever else might be necessary - then he refused to admit it. 

__

 

Four weeks, six days. If there was any mercy, the others would be in Metz by now, d'Artagnan knew. And he needs them to be there. Since the incident at the store, Muldrac had been picking his brain about alternative uses of gunpowder. Clearly, some part of his plans involved bombs but, no matter how coyly d'Artagnan played off his knowledge and how many specifics he insisted he needed to make something like that work, Muldrac had dropped little more than hints of what it was for. He needed to get to the bottom of this and soon. 

 

D'Artagnan made a show of longing for a drink that afternoon as he followed Muldrac's squad through the muddy streets. He could see townspeople flinching from them out of the corner of his eye and he hated it. If there was no sign of the others tonight at the tavern, he was going to have to go to plan B. He hated plan B. Especially since he hadn't thought of one yet. 

__

 

It was amazing how, when it came down to it, there was a sameness to every town. Athos had been in the same women bustling through their daily chores passing the same men going at their work. There were always cutpurses in the shadows. Rats in the alleys. There was always a tavern, frequently more than one - depending on the size of the town. But it was never very hard to find a drink. And easier still to figure out which tavern the Guard frequented the most. 

 

Even the tavern, dimly lit, filled with smoke, was identical to a dozen of the same in Paris and Athos had no trouble finding a dark corner to haunt, slumped over his wine like innumerable drunks before him. He'd melted right into the architecture of the place, wrapping the familiarity around him like a disguise in and of itself. Within days he was certain that the bartender would swear he'd always been there. Just one of a dozen town drunks that haunted the various taverns. And if he paid a bit more attention to the various guards in their garish red tabards, no one could tell.

__

 

"I think Charles here should buy the first round," Muldrac chortled as they crashed down the tavern stairs. He gave a wicked grin that d'Artagnan only barely managed to return - the man had said the same thing the last three times they'd gone to the tavern and d'Artagnan had noticed that though he'd drink all night, he never managed to buy a round himself. 

 

It did however mean that no one noticed when d'Artagnan managed to slosh out half his ale before he returned to the table. And on this particular night, no one noticed his brief stumble when his eye caught on a silhouette in a dark corner. Something that had been wound tight within him loosened and he had to lock his knees against the wave of relief. But d'Artagnan recovered quickly. He flung the ales onto the table in front of the other Guards,  laughing loudly, "Here you ungrateful louts." He clapped a hand boldly on Muldrac's shoulder, knowing Athos would be watching, knowing Athos would know exactly what he was trying to tell him, that he always had his back. "But tomorrow night, Muldrac, you owe me a game."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in a weird twist, my brain has gone slightly smutty after this which is odd for me. I prefer to leave things unspoken more often than not. But. If there's interest, I'll post it as a stand alone chapter that can be skipped if its not to your taste. There's no real plot to it. Just a scene. And frankly, since I'm writing the next one simultaneously with this one, it's probably at least half that one's fault that it exists. But if there's interest, I'll post it. If not, I'll keep on with the plot. ;)


	7. Explicit (skip if you like, there's not plot here)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned in the notes last chapter, here be smut. At least, as smutty as I get. There's no plot. At least, nothing that will need to be known for the rest of the story. So if it's not your thing, mosey on along and they'll be another chapter of actual plottage soon. 
> 
> As always, thanks for the kudos and the comments. They are much appreciate and very motivating. ;)

  
D'Artagnan made sure the ale kept coming, though his purse was getting thin. A slow haze of alcohol started to glaze over the eyes of the other guards as they sloshed their tankards. The rounds blurred together and d'Artagnan pointedly kept himself from turning to look at any shadows. Muldrac's stories were getting more and more unbelievable with every ale he drank but, other than a clear understanding of just how much the man abused his power, d'Artagnan was learning nothing new about the plot against the crown. 

  
He wanted to push, to see if the liquor had loosened Muldrac's tongue enough that he could be led and this could be _over_ , but he couldn't risk it. D'Artagnan needed to be sure he had everyone involved before the end and he couldn't risk the trust of the only link he was sure of without knowing more. So he listened to Muldrac's ridiculous boasting, tight shoulders hunched over his own half empty mug, and drank as the shadows lengthened.

The tavern's air was thick with smoke and the stale sweat of bodies as the drinks kept flowing. It was late when the Guard Captain's latest story trailed off, his gaze straying to the barmaid, clearly eyeing her for more than the drinks she was carrying. Rousing himself to grin, d'Artagnan motioned her over for another round, though his fist clenched under the table. The other man gave him a leer in response, trapping the wench against the table when she came near and whispering hotly into her ear. His hand lingered as he slipped some coins into her bodice. She gave an affected giggle in response and started leading him away from the table, throwing a saucy wink at d'Artagnan as they passed which made the ale he'd drank turn sour in his stomach.

The few remaining guards cackled as they toasted Muldrac with their ale. The tankards clunked together heavily and d'Artagnan could smell the bitter drink as it sloshed onto the table. Their bodies pressed in around him at the sides, making him want to flinch at the movement of the open air on his back. He felt dizzy in the heat of it. D'Artagnan ran a tense hand through his hair, hating the feel of the stiff short strands against his skin, when a motion in the shadows caught his eye.

He pushed away from the table abruptly, the room pulsing a little as he stood. Distantly, he heard himself saying something about needing some air and pasted a wan grin on his face at the inevitable jeers. He stumbled through the crush of flesh in the tavern towards the back, making a show of stumbling slightly to add verisimilitude to his departure. The firelight glanced off the red of his tabard, catching the corner of his eye, the glare of it making him flinch and stumble for real. 

The wood of the alley door was rough underneath his hands as he caught himself against it, letting his weight push it open. The cool air pricked against his skin, feeling almost hypersensitive after the oppressive heat of the tavern. The thud of the door closing seemed overloud and the lines around his eyes deepened as he scanned the alley, looking for the source of the movement that had drawn him out to begin with.

There was a noise to his left and he spun that way, small knife drawn, as some of the shadows separated from the dark of the alley and resolved into a hooded figure in a dusty black cloak. D'Artagnan was lowering the knife in recognition even before the figure's hands pushed back the hood to reveal the touseled blond head. "Athos," d'Artagnan breathed, more air than sound as he moved forward. He must have lost a few seconds because the next thing he knew, Athos was in front of him, running his hands over his arms, subtly checking for injuries. D'Artagnan quirked a faint smile, almost swaying into the touch, "I'm fine, Athos."

Anger burned bright from blue eyes as the Musketeer scowled at him, "I can see bruises, d'Artagnan." Despite his words, his hands came to rest on d'Artagnan's elbows, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched.

"Just bruises," he breathed, relishing the contact as his hands lay lightly on Athos' waist. He could feel Athos take a shuddering breath underneath his hands and he closed his eyes to savor the contact. "You heard earlier?"

Athos nodded without moving his head away, his sharp blue eyes still running over d'Artagnan's form like he expected blood to bloom on his clothes at any minute. "That Muldrac, that's your link? And you want Porthos tomorrow night?" 

D'Artagnan gave a long slow sigh but Athos' hands were steady on his arms. "Yes, warn Aramis too. He'll need to be ready just in case. I need to get Muldrac to trust me more and fast. Whatever they're planning, he means to put it into motion soon." His hands clenched on Athos' waist, fingers tight enough to leave marks but Athos didn't pull away.   
The rough skin of Athos' calluses rasped against the wool of his tabard as he ran one hand up d'Artagnan's spine to clasp the back of his neck, sending a frisson of heat in its wake. "You weren't there..." Those blue eyes closed as Athos drew in a breath so deep it felt like the first one he'd taken in a month. "We rode the horses into the ground to get back and you weren't there..." 

The hand on his neck pulled him closer and d'Artagnan could feel Athos exhale against his skin. "I'm fine," He breathed the words against Athos' lips, putting every ounce of conviction he could manage into them while keeping his voice low to avoid discovery, "I swear to you, I'm fine. But I haven't much time."

A grunt escaped Athos - of assent, of want, of need, d'Artagnan wasn't sure, didn't care - and then he was pulling d'Artagnan forward to press their lips together. Athos tasted like wine and it was more intoxicating than any drink he'd had the entire night in the tavern. Absently, he was thankful for the fact that Athos had left his leathers behind as it took only a moment for his hands to find their way under his shirt to the warm skin underneath. He snaked his hands up his chest, feeling the long lean muscles flex under his hands as he wrapped them around and pulled Athos as tight against him as biology would allow. 

Athos was moving like a man drowning, his hands striping off the hated tabard and letting it fall to the ground. Something like triumph gleamed in his eyes when it was off. D'Artagnan started to smile at that look but it turned into a gasp at the fierce press of Athos' lips and the rasp of his beard along his cheek. Though Athos had felt naked before without his leathers, he was clad of it now as the Gascon's hands ran over his chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

Fingers lightly looping his nipples, d'Artagnan flexed, nails scraping lightly over the sensitive skin and wringing a harsh gasp from Athos as the sensation shot like lightning to pool at his groin. He pressed forward to claim d'Artagnan's lips again as his own hands made quick work of opening the battered leathers and unlacing the shirt underneath. He pressed further into the kiss, pressing his body against d'Artagnan's. Further still, backing the other man up and swallowing the soft exhale he made upon hitting the wall. 

D'Artagnan could feel the rough scrape of the brick at his back but he didn't care. Athos had him pinned on the wall, the long line of his body pressed against him. It was maddening and he darted in to mouth at the sensitive skin under Athos' jaw, hands tightening in the other man's hair to allow him more access. Athos slid the hard line of his thigh between d'Artagnan's legs causing his hips to jerk forward, grinding his own length against him. His fingers trailed down Athos' back and he teased them underneath his belt as he moved his hips in short sharp rolls. 

Athos swallowed a groan before it could escape and kissed him savagely, his hand sliding up his neck as he pulled his head closer. The foreign sensation of his hand running over his shorn head sent shivers through d'Artagnan but there was a shadow in Athos' eyes as he looked at the mutilated locks that he couldn't stand. He scraped his teeth over Athos' lips and slid his hands under his belt to the buckle, watching with pleasure as lust darkened blue eyes to midnight, chasing away any hint of regret, as he fumbled the belt buckle open. 

The touch of his skin felt impossibly hot against him as d'Artagnan's hand slipped inside his breeches. He moaned softly, riding Athos' thigh as it bucked under him when his hand closed around the hard length of him and started stroking him in rhythm with his undulating hips. The older man's mouth trailed down his neck to his collarbone and d'Artagnan knew there's be a mark just under his shirt the next morning. 

Then, Athos shifted against him, his thigh falling away, and the sudden lack of friction wrung a small whimper from the back of d'Artagnan's throat. Before he could do more than make a sound, Athos was surging against him. He had no idea when the other man had undone his own belt but he highly approved as Athos reached for his shaft, matching the rhythm d'Artagnan had set. 

D'Artagnan's free hand clutched onto Athos' shoulder as if to pull the other man closer though they were already squeezed together chest to thigh. Athos slid them together, wrapping his hand around them both as best he could. D'Artagnan tangled their fingers together to surround them both, the hot slick smoothing the way as he felt the pleasure building between them. A strong hand slipped under his thigh, pulling it upward and allowing them to get just that little bit closer. The extra bit tipped d'Artagnan over the edge. It was too much after being alone for so long and pleasure whited out the world for a long moment. Athos thrust against him once, twice more, then his body stiffened against him as the older man followed him. 

As they came back to themselves, twined together against the wall, their short hard breaths filling his ears was all d'Artagnan could hear over the rushing of his ears. He felt the brush of hair against his cheek and he relished the feel of it as Athos tucked his face into his neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he leaned his head against Athos'.

Athos shook his head without lifting it, "No." He pressed a soft kiss to the side of d'Artagnan's neck before meeting his eyes. Even in the dark of the alley, his blue eyes were bright and clear as a summer sky. It took d'Artagnan's breath away. A gentle smile hinted at Athos' lips as his hand trailed along d'Artagnan's jaw. "Till duty or death," he echoed, clearing his throat as he pulled a cloth from his pocket and started cleaning them both up. "Duty always comes first." The words were quiet and sure in the space between them as he pulled away, straightening his clothes. 

D'Artagnan picked up the crimson tabard from the ground, shaking off the dust that had settled on it. He couldn't quite bring himself to put it back on yet. Or to meet Athos' eyes. "I have to go." His fingers worried at the trim of the tunic. "I can't afford for anyone to think I was gone for anything more than a tumble with a skirt." 

Nodding, Athos expression faded back to its default grim neutral, "I will make sure Porthos is here tomorrow. We'll all be here." The red fabric crinkled where it was crushed in d'Artagnan's fist. Athos slowly pried his fingers apart, smoothing out the wrinkles before settling the tabard back over d'Artagnan's head. "We'll be here when you need us."   
That prompted a disbelieving laugh, "Don't you think I know that?" He shook his dark head, the lack of the familiar locks still jarring, leaving him nothing to hide behind. "I never doubted that." 

Athos' hand dropped to his shoulder and squeezed tight, his thumb pressing on the jacket, just over the mark he'd left. "Be careful." 

D'Artagnan quirked a crooked grin before disappearing back into the tavern, "Always." 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter but I felt bad that there was no update for people who wanted to skip the explicit chapter. So back to the plot!   
> Thanks for the kudos and comments on the last chapter especially. I don't generally write anything explicit with these guys because in my head, they're relatively subtle given the time period and all but. So extra thanks for that.

  
The first thing d'Artagnan heard when he entered the tavern the next night was the ringing of Porthos' laughter. Barely, he caught the smile that automatically came to his face and turned it into a scowl as the other guards made questioning noises.

  
Porthos was already in the thick of a game and the disgruntled expressions on the faces of the other men at the table spoke of his success. Mudrac eyed him sharply, suspicion painting itself across his craggy features. 

  
The guards took their usual table, literally booting out one of the villagers who'd unwisely thought to sit there, and started in on their first round of ale. But Muldrac couldn't take his eyes off the card game, squinting at the proceedings over his tankard. As Porthos unfolded his great bulk to fetch more wine, D'Artagnan knew he didn't have much time if he wanted to stay in control of the situation. He moved to the far end of the table, leaning over towards Muldrac, and dropping his voice, "I went through Paris on a caravan about a year ago." Muldrac's eyes cut towards him, missing Porthos maneuvering his way to open area of the bar by the door, as d'Artagnan continued, "I heard stories about a giant with a demon streak of luck." 

  
"So?" Muldrac grunted, eyes latching back onto Porthos. He was leaning forward as if trying to match the man to something in the back of his mind.

"A giant," d'Artagnan emphasized, with a nod of his head towards Porthos that he knew the man would catch, "who was also a _Musketeer_."

  
For a moment, Muldrac sat shocked and then rage dawned on his face and the tavern exploded into motion. The guard captain shot to his feet, pointing at Porthos and shouting, "Get him!"

  
But Porthos was already moving, shooting out the door with a speed that belied his size. Ostensibly in pursuit, d'Artagnan bolted for the door as well, shouting for the bigger man to stop, making sure his foot caught the bench as he rounded the table. The motion unbalanced the long slab of wood and it fell, tangling up several of the other guards as they started to move in pursuit. 

  
Porthos didn't slow as he hit the street, d'Artagnan only meters behind him. Long legs ate up the distance and the gates of Metz were in sight in bare minutes. As he rounded the corner coming up to the gates, the younger man pulled his pistol. Porthos reached the gates, heading straight for the forest. D'Artagnan sighted carefully as he ran, knowing Muldrac wasn't far behind, and fired without stopping. 

  
A chunk of the stone gate flew into the air as he'd intended and he cursed for effect, putting every bit of speed he had into running so he could out distance Muldrac. He could see the glint of metal in the trees and knew Aramis had them covered just in case.

  
A hundred feet inside the tree line, he caught up with Porthos, who was glaring at him as he breathed heavily, "I 'ate running, d'Art." 

  
D'Artagnan gave him a sheepish grin as he glanced behind - the last burst of speed had outpaced Muldrac and the others by quite a bit but they wouldn't be behind long. "Sorry, Porthos. I needed  something to get them to trust me." 

  
"Better this than us shooting you again," a wry grin twisted Porthos' lips.

  
The comment wrung a chuff of a laugh from d'Artagnan, "It's still early ." He ignored the glare Porthos sent him. "Treville was right - there is a plot but I don't know what it is yet. He wants me to blow something up; that's part of it but no details. If this works, I'll find out what's going on but it'll move up their timeline too. They can't risk Musketeers getting involved." Another glance behind - Muldrac and the others were rounding the gate themselves now. One last thought occurred to him, "The guard don't use firearms so he'll have to get the gunpowder from somewhere." He shook his head pointing north. "There's no time. Go that way. You can jump in the river and I can use that as an excuse for losing you."

  
"The river, d'Art?" Porthos complained but started moving just the same. 

  
"Eh, you spent all day in that tavern - you need a bath," d'Artagnan teased, giving him just enough of a head start. "I'll do what I can to get you a message but tell the others to keep an eye out."

  
Too far away for speech, Porthos raised a hand in acknowledgment and then he was gone. When the guards caught up to him, he was peering down the river and cursing, "I lost him at the river."

  
Muldrac eyed the river for a long moment and then clapped a hand on his shoulder, "Well, he won't be coming back. Well done spotting him." D'Artagnan was startled at the compliment, the first Muldrac had ever given him but the man didn't notice. He gave d'Artagnan a sharp edged smile and turned back to town, "I saw you get a shot off at him too. I think that deserves a drink."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The climax is coming up fast. If I stick to my outline, there's about five more chapters to go so more than halfway there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for the kudos and comments. Very very much appreciated. And my apologies for this taking so long. Somehow it sparked the thread for the last two I have planned for this series and I got a bit,.. sidetracked. But here it is and the final chapter or two should be up soon.

With Porthos forced to lay low, it was Aramis who came back into the city to check in with Athos, slipping into the inn just before daybreak to wake him. Athos, never a morning person, was certain this was some kind of oblique revenge, but since his part in this plan so far had not involved being stuck up any trees, he conceded that it might just have been fair. And in part it was his own fault - he had stayed down in the tavern until it closed the previous night. Watching d'Artagnan with the guards had been its own kind of torture.

The marksman grinned at Athos as he gave up and plunged his face into the basin of cool water on the table, "Long night fearless leader?" Athos grunted in response as he tossed his head back, letting the cool water run down his spine. He ducked down again, the water muffling Aramis' laughter as the Spaniard casually finished off the dregs of one of the wine bottles on the chest of drawers. 

The laughter choked off into offended outrage as Athos flung his head back, splashing cold water directly into Aramis's face before using his old shirt to dry off. He emerged to see Aramis glaring at him as he shook the excess water off his curls, "Not that I should tell you since you are terribly cruel to me, but Porthos was able to speak with d'Artagnan briefly." Suddenly he was the focus of alert blue eyes under one expressive eyebrow and Aramis held up his hands in concession. "It wasn't long. But he thinks they're aiming for an explosion and that they'll be moving soon."

Athos ran a hand over his beard as he mulled that over, "The guards don't have that kind of munition..." He braced himself on a chair, the linen of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders, as his mind raced ahead, "They'll need to raid the armory." 

Hopping off the chest, Aramis tossed his cloak to the older man. "Porthos has already found an alley with a view of the enterance. I'm heading to the rooftops." 

Nodding, Athos tied the cloak off, belting his sword further back than was his wont so it would be harder to see. "I'll make my way by the streets. If it seems quiet, I'll stumble into a doorway to keep watch on the back."

A broad grin stretched across Aramis' face as he donned his hat, clapping his hand on Athos' shoulder as they left the room, "I'm sure the lad won't keep us waiting long."  
__

"Ah, Charles," Muldrac's hand clapped heavily on the back of d'Artagnan's shoulder as he sat down at the rough hewn tables with his breakfast. "No time for breakfast today. I doubt that overgrown lout of a Musketeer knows anything but the Commander says better safe than sorry. We have work to do today." 

Well done, Porthos, d'Artagnan thought, hiding a grin, as he swung easily up from the table. He had suspected the Commander before - Muldrac had plenty of petty cruelty and greed but no brains to go with it - but had no proof. The confirmation alone made the prior day's adventures worthwhile. If only he could be sure the Commander was the end of it, this could be done. 

The thought had d'Artagnan hurrying to catch up to the other man. "Where are we going?" 

Muldrac slanted a glance back at him, his eyes shadowed, "We have plans for your... special talents. Like what you did in that stupid little shop." His grin sharpened, "Only bigger, with more damage."

D'Artagnan cocked his head like he was considering it, "I'll need more powder. A lot more."

A dark laugh escaped the Guard Captain, "Which is why we're going to grab a few other trusted men and do a little shopping."  
___

The armory stood tall in Metz, though it had not the artistry or height of the cathedral. Sun glinted off its simple stone face and warmed the metal gates that barred the entrance Behind the armory, where the sun never showed its light, it was cold. And damp in the way that only old moldy brick in a mud lined alley could bring out. It had seeped into Athos' bones the moment he slumped into the rickety doorway that he thought must serve as the rear entrance to the tailor's shop, based upon the discarded pieces of ribbon and tattered fabric that littered the ground around him. 

He pulls the cloak around him, trying to blend into the rags, as he took another swig from his wineskin. It was a piss poor substitute for what he could obtain in Paris but it was alcoholic enough to warm him and that would have to do. Though he kept his head tucked down, his sharp blue eyes kept a stark watch on the alley mouth for any sign of d'Artagnan or the hated red tabards. He knew Porthos and Aramis were in place. They lacked only their fourth to bring this to an end.

As Aramis had suspected, as Athos was draining the dregs of the skin a short time later, he heard the scuff of boots on the stones of the street. He shrugged down further into the doorway, pulling his hat further down and letting his head fall slack against his chest, as if he were sleeping off a long night.

There were six of them, including d'Artagnan when they came down the alley. Well within their capabilities, especially once d'Artagnan rejoined them. From under the brim of his hat, Athos' saw the dark shadow of Porthos' bulk slipping towards the alley and the glint of Aramis' pistol steadying on the edge of the roof. He shifted his arm with aching slowness, reaching to close his fingers around the hilt of his sword, when his eyes lifted up to d'Artagnan. 

The younger man met his gaze briefly, his eyes dark and solemn, and shook his ever minutely, freezing him in place. D'Artagnan's eyes flitted away almost immediately but down at his side, his fingers made a complicated motion, stopped deliberately, and then repeated it. 

Athos' fingers turned white on his sword for a long moment. Then he let out his breath slowly, relaxing back into his slump and loosing the hilt. Seeing Athos relax back into the doorway, the great shadow of Porthos' bulk pressed back against the wall. Threat to the kingdom or not, if d'Artagnan needed this to play out longer, then they would follow his lead. Slitted blue eyes watched in consideration as the small clutch of guards went into the armory and came out with two barrels of gunpowder. They would follow his lead and follow d'Artagnan. Athos was not going to be left behind again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters left to go. And I'm determined they'll be up fast since I'm going on vacation at the end of the week and won't have computer access. 
> 
> As always, thanks for the comments and kudos. They are deeply appreciated.

The relief that washed over d'Artagnan when Athos subsided was tempered quickly by the dread that sank in his stomach like a stone as he helps the guards retreat with the two barrels of gunpowder. He was quite certain he was going to get an earful about this plan when the others caught up with him (and really, someday they were going to have to let that 'shoot me' plan of his go) but he wasn't willing to take the chance that the Commander of the Guard was where it ended. His luck didn't usually run that way. Letting the Guards have the gunpowder was a risk, but less of one than letting treasonous masterminds run free. 

They loaded the two barrels into a cart and d'Artagnan swung up easily next to Muldrac, "So what now?" 

Gathering up the battered leather reins, Muldrac clucked at the horses before giving d'Artagnan a dark grin, "Time to put your skills to work, Charles." He jerked his head at the other guards in the back of the cart, "Commander wants you to teach at least one of them how you did your little smoke trick while you make us something a little more... impressive." 

Keeping his face carefully neutral, d'Artagnan cast a considering eye over the others for show, "Are you sure they've got steady enough hands for this? Playing with gunpowder isn't exactly a child's game and I won't be of much use with a building on my head."

Muldrac's face contorted as he thought that through, "Hm, best not to do this inside then." The effort was clearly reflected on his face, cementing d'Artagnan's surety that while Muldrac had a flair for cruelty, he could not possibly be the one planning rebellion. The other man's face brightened as he clearly came to a conclusion, "Commander's fortress got courtyard you could work in. He's wanted to meet you anyway." 

It took effort not to break out into a grin and keep the bored mask he'd cultivated for Charles Garnier on his face, but d'Artagnan managed. Barely.   
___

Fists clenched tight at his sides, Athos watched the cart start its slow drive from the shadows of the mouth of the alley but he didn't flinch when Aramis landed lightly beside him.

"Porthos sent me down and he's taking the high road. I take it someone decided on a new plan?" The Spaniard's voice was light but there was a tension underneath that those closest to him would recognize as worry.

Still hugging the shadows, Athos started moving forward, Aramis at his side, keeping the cart in sight. "D'Artagnan. There's either something we don't know going on or something else he thinks we need to discover before we act." So far, the Guards, secure in their control over the populace, still moved slow enough that they were easy to follow, but Athos was grateful to hear Porthos had caught on and was taking a faster route. 

Tucking the hand with the pistol underneath the edge of his cloak for at least the pretense of concealment, Aramis followed, pulling his hat low. "Well, it's still a better plan than us shooting him." 

Athos winced, muttering darkly, "You'll forgive me if I'm reserving my vote on that yet." 

__

"Is this it?" A half filled wood box was shoved under his nose by a Guard who clearly had yet to master the finer points of bathing much less bombmaking. 

D'Artagnan shook his head, "No, fill it all the way up, layer the fuse on top, and then seal it up." He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, If you leave it that much air it might actually explode and we can't have that. His luck is holding - the guard they want him to teach is quite thick. Between that and the deliberate misinformation d'Artagnan is giving him, he's not worried that they'll be able to make anything without him. D'Artagnan himself is making the "bombs" but he's building flaws into as many as he thinks he can get away with so that the end result is that only about one in four would explode in the worst case scenario. 

The Gascon used the leather wrapped mallet to hammer in a peg on the one he'd just finished, closing the small wooden container without the risk of sparks. Holding the finished bomb, dark eyes assessed the small pile he'd placed in the east corner before he took it to the opposite wall by the outer gates. 

"Hey!" the noise made d'Artagnan start and he turned to see Muldrac entering the courtyard from the eastern door that lead to the inner fortress, giving him a strange look, "What are you doing? Why are you putting it over there?"

Gritting his teeth, d'Artagnan put on an exasperated face, thinking quickly, "Because if anything goes wrong with any one of them, we don't want to lose them all do we?" The guard blanched and had the grace to look embarrassed and d'Artagnan let out a small breath of relief, setting down the device before returning to the work station. 

Muldrac surveyed the pile by the east wall and the in progress devices on the table. "I had hoped you'd have more done," he frowned. His eyes followed the work of the guard assigned to learn from d'Artagnan, watching closely as the man, still nervous at his task, carefully ladled out a small portion of gunpowder before adding more. "Still, I suppose a bit of care is necessary here. How many bombs can you get out of this and when will you be done?"

"I'll have the bulk of it done by tonight," d'Artagnan said as he surveyed the gunpowder. He didn't think he could reasonably delay it longer than that. By rights, he should have been done already. 

The guard captain seemed to accept it, nodding as he picked up one of the half finished devices, prodding it absentmindedly before putting it back down. "Commander wants you at dinner."

The command in his voice was clear and d'Artagnan ducked his head, "Then I shall be happy to attend."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back from vacation! For everyone who hasn't forgotten about this one, here's the next to last chapter. ;) I hope you enjoy.

  
The interior of the fortress was no more welcoming than the outside had been. This place had clearly been a stronghold back in the days of Charlemagne and the ghosts of that time lingered in the shadows that the faint light from the balistraria and the flickering of the torches did nothing to dispatch. The stones of the floor had long since worn smooth but the walls were pebbled with age. The hallways had clearly been designed with an eye towards defense - anyone attacking the fortress would have to come in through the courtyard, anyone making it past the courtyard would find themselves fighting in hallways that clearly favored those inside, unable to move forward without detection and no way to go but further in.

It felt like a tomb. 

Muldrac, leading the way, clearly felt none of the oppression of the building's years. His chest was puffed like a peacock strutting and d'Artagnan could see him mentally anticipating the promotion he was expecting for finding a bomb maker to suit their purposes. 

Grateful to be spared the need to make conversation, d'Artagnan rubbed a hand over his chin, resisting the urge to scratch at the beard that still felt wrong even after over a month. But the urge disappeared as they entered the banquet hall. 

Tapestries hung from the walls, with the warp showing bare at points and the colors faded into a smooth blur. The long table looked like it had been hewn from some ancient oak and then worn smooth and dark by time and use. Plates gleamed in the candlelight - a metallic flash, though d'Artagnan could not tell if they were silver or pewter. Everything was tarnished and hung heavy with age. 

Two men sat at the end of the table and, based on the place settings, another was clearly expected. At the head of the table, an old man sat in heavy velvet robes, dust heavy in the nap of the fabric, shoulders bowed and eyes foggy. To his left, a middle aged gentlemen, blond hair shot through with white, squinted at d'Artagnan skeptically. Given his blood red tabard, shot through with gold thread, d'Artagnan felt safe assuming this was the Commander.

An assumption proven correct when Muldrac stuttered to a stop and made a clumsy bow, "Commander. This is Garnier, the sellsword I recruited. He's nearly done with that extra task."

The unsettling gaze remained upon him as d'Artagnan sketched out a bow. "Garnier. I have heard you have a talent for gunpowder."

Taking a deep breath, d'Artagnan straightened, pasting a cocky grin on his face, "I... picked up a few things in my travels. I'm happy to be of service." He let the grin stretch into a smirk, "Assuming I continue to be paid well for that service, that is." 

The Commander's mouth tightened as he pinched his wine glass, "We can certainly manage that." He motioned to the older man respectfully, "Though he lost his title when the bastard king stormed our gates, my father still has deep coffers and he has opened them for the cause. If you can help us free Metz from the hands of that fop in Paris, my brother and I will keep you well supplied with gold."

Finally, the puzzle was clear. The why and the who laid out right before him. But d'Artagnan was still in the belly of the beast and he would need to tread carefully to get this information to the others. _Eat some dinner, discuss some bombs, and get the hell out of here to tell the others_. They couldn't be far at this point.

A rustling at the back of the hall drew his attention and the Commander turned to beckon to the figure emerging from behind a tapestry covered passage, "Ah, brother. Come and meet Muldrac's pet mercenary."

Unlike the other two men, the figure that came into the flickering candlelight was clearly a nobleman. With the same sandy blond hair and hooked nose as the Commander, there was no mistaking this man's parentage, though his clothes were finer and more in the style of the current court. So much in style in fact, that they sent a frission of fear down d'Artagnan's spine as the man looked at him critically. He by no means had learned the faces of all of King Louis' courtiers but most of them had ample opportunity to see him - either on guard or as King's champion. He fisted his hand in his belt to keep from running it over his head as he gave a curt bow, ducking his head, "My lord." D'Artagnan fought the urge to hold his breath as he held his position for a long moment. 

The noble's eyes were casting over him critically when he straightened, "I have a good memory for faces and something about yours is familiar."

D'Artagnan forced his expression back to bored insouciance, "I have been guarding caravans in and out of Paris since my father's death, most recently for the Duke du Savoy." Tension thrummed through his shoulders - even if they'd followed him from the armory, the others would be waiting for a signal, they wouldn't have followed him inside, not yet at least.

"That must be it," the other man mused, his gaze unrelenting. "Why don't you have a seat and we can discuss your contributions to the cause?" He motioned gracefully to the seat across from him. 

Deliberately forcing his shoulders back, d'Artagnan moves towards the table, his right hand coming to hook his thumb in his belt. As soon as his glove touches his belt, he knows it's a mistake. The hard impact of his scabbard against his left leg feels as sharp as a wound and he sees the noble's eyes narrow on his belt.   
He's moving before the noble fully opens his mouth, sweeping a chair into Muldrac's legs and spinning towards the door even as the man starts to shout, "He's a Musketeer! Get him!"

The Commander's still in his chair when D'Artagnan bolts through the door and winds back towards the courtyard.  Options and half formed ideas flit through his brain like lightning as he skids around another corner, pushing off the wall to try and keep his speed. Lungs pumping in his chest, he's grateful for the ancient straightforward design - no forks to trip him up or allow the Red Guard to get ahead of him.   
It's that absent thought that coalesces a desperate plan in his mind. He runs it through his mind, wincing as he bounces off a wall as he takes a corner too hard, as much from the thought as from the impact. It would work, d'Artagnan was sure of it. His boot slipped on a too smooth stone but he recovered. He can hear the heavy boots slapping the stones behind him in time with Muldrac's curses and knows he won't have much time. But the plan should work. He's going to need rescuing after and he hates that; d'Artagnan loathes the idea that he's going to be the damsel in this scenario but Muldrac is only moments behind him and he can hear shouting beyond that. There's no choice: he's going to have to have faith that his brothers will find him. But he is sure of one thing. 

_Athos is going to kill me._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving that tiny little cliffie hanging for so long. Vacation was amazing but the other side of the world inspired so many damn things that I kind of lost track of this one for a bit. But here's a nice long update. I think just one more to go and it should be up within the next few days. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are infinitely appreciated as is the fact that y'all stick with me to the end even when I'm slow. Thank you so much.

  
"Come on, he's been in there for hours. I say we go get 'im out."

Porthos' demand grated on Athos' few remaining nerves and his glove creaked as his hand clenched in a fist. He focused on unclenching his hand, mostly to distract himself from agreeing. He wanted nothing more than to go in after d'Artagnan. He could feel Aramis glancing at him worriedly before the Spaniard put a placating hand on Porthos' arm. 

"We all want to go after him, my friend," The marksman's voice was soothing. "But he delayed our interference before for a reason and he will not thank us if we go in too soon."

He was, Athos knew, speaking as much to him as to Porthos. "D'Artagnan is clever. He will know to signal us when he needs us."

The bigger man growled but subsided, "We didn't even agree on a signal."

"While I would like to hope otherwise, given that it's d'Artagnan," Athos said dryly, "I presume some sort of explosion will be involved." He shook his head in resignation. "We will trust him and wait."

++

His lungs were burning and his shoulder aching from bouncing off various sharp turns by the time d'Artagnan could see the fading light in the courtyard. Grimly, he ducked his head and pushed harder, grabbing one of the torches from the wall as he went. He was literally never going to hear the end of this from the others. But his choices were limited. He refused to throw away all this work by letting them get away. This plot was going to unravel now and he would be the one pulling the thread.

With that conviction, d'Artagnan burst into the courtyard, skidding on the loose stone as he lit the fuse closest to the gate. Muldrac's cursing proclaimed him right behind him and the Gascon looked regretfully at the main gates as he threw away any hope of getting away clean with his torch. The fuses he'd so carefully laid around the courtyard earlier caught as quickly as he'd intended - mind you, he'd expected to be lighting them from the other end on his way out the door but even so. The flame was nearly at the piles of explosives set near the interior door when Muldrac burst through them.

D'Artagnan barely made it beneath the sturdy wood of the worktable when the fuse reached the first of the piles and the world erupted in smoke and flame. Roughly half of the munitions he'd made wouldn't function as anything more than smoke bombs but the rest were more than enough to turn the world into armageddon. The first blast rolled over him like a wave, flinging the table and him into the air. The shock of the noise left d'Artagnan deafened when he struck the ground, so he was caught by surprise when the fuse reached the second pile. 

The solid stone walls around the door had withstood the first blast, but with the second, debris shattered the air. Desperate with the sure and certain knowledge that this was not done yet, d'Artagnan tried to thrust himself behind the wrecked table for protection from the sharp stone splinters hurtling through the air. He could feel blood trickling down the side of his face from his ear and the grit of the dirt from the courtyard underneath his fingers as they scrabbled to hold on to the wood for any kind of shelter.   
He tried to brace himself but the fuse hit the third and fourth piles of explosives at roughly the same time. It felt like the bottom dropped out of the world. Everything was disoriented and unreal in the silence - d'Artagnan was in the air again but he couldn't tell which way was up and everything was moving. 

He skidded into the ground when he hit, like a flat rock thrown across a lake. Pain erupted across his body and it was almost a relief when he finally hit the wall. The impact blew the air from his chest and d'Artagnan fought down the instinct to panic. Ignoring the burn of raw skin, he pushed against the ground, hunching his chest as he forced air back into his lungs. His left arm hung useless, his shoulder misshapen beneath his shirt and he winced at the thought of the pain of resetting it. But that would have to wait for help. 

Still gasping in air, dark eyes surveyed what was left of the courtyard. Both doors were completely blockaded with rubble and a viscous sense of pride and satisfaction swelled up in the Gascon's aching chest at the destruction he had wrought. The King would be safe. No one was escaping this place without outside aid. 

Some rocks falling down a pile of rubble about 20 feet away caught his eye and d'Artagnan's face became grim. Not even him.   
___ _  
_

"I swear to God, when we get d'Art back, I'm goin' ta sit on 'im if he tries to leave without us again," Porthos shifted his weight back and forth on his heels for the millionth time, trying to spot movement. The sun had slipped behind the cathedral while they waited and watched and the inactivity was grating on them all. "Why aren't we just going in ta get 'im?"

Athos' took a slow measured breath, pushing aside an appealing mental image of d'Artagnan tied to the garrison. "He will send a signal." His faith on this point was unshakable - he could not believe otherwise.

A scuffling on the cobblestone caught both men's attention and when Aramis dropped down beside them, he was greeted with steel. The Spaniard held up his hands with a wry smile, "The ladies of Paris would never forgive you."

"Their husbands might give us a medal," Porthos grinned as he lowered his blade.

Athos remained unmoved by the banter, his stormy blue eyes glaring. "Report."

Aramis shook his head, turning back towards the courtyard gate while the rising shadows cloaked his eyes from view. "The other guards moved to the gate and that Muldrac fellow took d'Artagnan inside the fortress just after the last bell. No sign of them coming out yet."

Cursing under his breath, Athos ducked his head. His hand squeezed around the hilt of his sword as he tried to throttle back the protective instincts that were screaming at him. He looked up at the others, seeing the visible worry in the creases next to Aramis' dark eyes and the hard fist of Porthos' free hand, and made a decision, "If he doesn't emerge by the next bell, it seems we'll have to go and fetch thim." 

  
They were discussing the best strategy for that when the sounds of shouting reached them from inside the courtyard. Athos gave Aramis a nod towards the wall, but before Porthos could boost him up, the air burst with an explosion. The second explosion followed hard on its heels; making the walls tremble and tumbling the Musketeers to the ground as the earth convulsed with the force of it. 

The staccato hammer of the final two explosions shook them, jarring their bones. Before the last of the tremors faded away, Athos was desperately stumbling to his feet, swaying like it was the hard end of a night of bad wine. Nearby, Porthos was reclaiming his schiava from where it had fallen in the commotion.

Coughing through the slowly settling dust, Athos gripped Aramis shoulder. The Spaniard looked up dazedly, a sluggishly bleeding cut at his temple. White faced with fear, for if it was this bad out here... Athos fought the urge to shake him. "Aramis!"

The marksman shook his head as if to clear it and his hand squeezed Athos' arm, "I'm all right. Go!" 

Stumbling over the debris, Athos made his way frantically over to the gate. Or rather, where the gate used to be. The courtyard was sealed in with rubble; the entrance entirely blocked. Shocked silent, Athos stared for a long moment and then suddenly Porthos was there, tossing rocks aside like they were pebbles. But he could hear....

"Porthos," Athos hissed, holding up a hand for silence. The bigger man stilled but clearly strained at the pause. But then they all could hear it - the tell tale clang of metal on metal.   
___

Muldrac punched his way out of a pile of rubble as d'Artagnan struggled to his feet. The Red Guard's face was a mask as crimson as his tunic and more cuts were clearly evident on his limbs but he didn't seem to feel them. He roared with rage instead as he freed himself and his eyes gave off a feral glint when he spotted d'Artagnan.

"You." He spat the word with a mouthful of blood as he staggered forward. "You _traitor_." A hateful smile twisted his lips, his teeth coated with blood, as he grabbed for his sword. 

D'Artagnan's eyes darted around, spotting his own sword on the ground nearby and he scooped it up with a grimace of pain. He set his feet as he adjusted the sword in his hand, his left hand hanging useless against his jerkin. It felt almost awkward to hold his sword properly after all the weeks of using his left hand and he found himself tossing it in his grip to get the feel of it. 

Muldrac's smirk grew wider as he watched, malice gleaming as he gazed at the useless left hand. "Seems like the traitor boy has a broken wing there. Going to fight me with your off hand then?"

Though he could barely make out the words, the meaning got across. Chuffing a laugh, d'Artagnan let the sword settle into his grip, feeling it conform to his hand like it had before. "Only a Red Guard would have missed it," he taunted. " _This_ isn't my off hand." 

A growl escaped Muldrac's lips as he realized what d'Artagnan was saying and he dashed forward in a furious charge. D'Artagnan parried the lunge, darting sideways so the energy of Muldrac's charge carried him past. He tried to spin fast enough to counter while he had the man's back but his already abused body stumbled on the rubble underfoot. He recovered only just in time to parry the Guard's next thrust. 

Muldrac was like a man gone insane, throwing attack after attack without logic or plan. The unpredictability of it on top of his injuries was almost too much for d'Artagnan. Their blades clashed together as he parried each strike without a chance to reply. He could see the rocks around the gate sliding and knew his brothers were coming but there was no time.

His focus narrowed down to the tip of the blade and bulk of Muldroc's shoulders - looking for any tell of what would be coming next. He had to end this soon or his injuries would end it for him. A slight dip of the other man's left shoulder and d'Artagnan was moving - ducking the tip of his sword to force Muldrac's up and sink his blade.   
The sword fell from Muldrac's suddenly nerveless hand and he went white with rage and pain. Whatever remnants of his sanity he'd maintained fled and his eyes were wild as he lurched forward rabidly. Utterly spent, d'Artagnan locked his knees, determined at the least to finish this on his feet. 

A sudden spray of red burst across his vision and it took d'Artagnan a moment to recognize Muldrac's good hand clutching at his throat before falling to the ground. Sluggishly, he lifted his eyes. He'd half expected Aramis but it was Athos, struggling through a half dug hole in the rubble, smoking pistol still in hand and leather gloves scuffed as he struggled through the tight opening.

  
A long slow blink and d'Artagnan must have lost some time because suddenly Athos was there, hands gripping tight to his arms as if he had been falling. Dazedly, he saw Athos' lips moving, heard the sound of it as if he was underwater, but he couldn't make out the words. He tried to tell him about the Captain, about the others, that they need to ensure either were killed in the explosion or arrest, but he couldn't hear his own words and he wasn't sure he was even speaking. Another blink and Aramis was in front of him, blood on his face, firm hands under d'Artagnan's chin. His mouth formed words, speaking with deliberation, but d'Artagnan couldn't track them enough to understand.   
A hiss of pain escaped him as a bandage tightened against a cut he hadn't noticed on his left arm. The hiss turned into a scream, echoing through his head, as someone lifted his arm in a swift sure motion - forcing the shoulder back into the socket. Pain washed over him in waves and he slumped, feeling a warm body against his back, holding him up. _Athos_ , he thought distantly before everything faded away. __


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow. Somehow the end of this one took longer than expected. I apologize for that. On the plus side, I have two more for this series started, a sequel to Taken for Granted, and one that's a complete sidestep of all of them that I've been poking with a stick. So I offer that in recompense though I'm not sure which one will be up next. ;)  
> As always, thank you all for the comments and kudos. Without those, I suspect I might never reach the end. They are deeply appreciated.

"Aramis!?!" Fear painted Athos' voice as d'Artagnan slumped in his arms. But Aramis was already there, his hand at d'Artagnan's throat, feeling for that oh so precious beat. 

He sagged in relief, "Just passed out from the pain." He didn't need to look up to feel the intensity of Athos' glare. "I had to do it, Athos. The longer it waited, the more the swelling would set in and then by the time I would have been able to set it, the damage might have been permanent." 

It would have been more reassuring if d'Artagnan's head didn't loll to the side. Athos went to his knees, tucking them under the younger man to support him as Aramis went to work. Porthos looked worriedly between them before loping off to investigate the rubble by the interior door. They couldn't afford an ambush at this point. 

Crouched next to d'Artagnan, Aramis' hands flew swiftly over the unconscious man. "Broken ribs, concussion, that gash in his arm will need needlework. And the shoulder will be tender for awhile," he muttered as he worked, knowing the concrete facts would keep Athos from imagining far darker outcomes. He moved onto his legs, checking for breaks and sighing relief when the bones were solid under his hands. "Scrapes and bruises. He is going to be sore everywhere for awhile." He tapped a gash thoughtfully, probing it lightly, "This should likely be stitched too. He's underfed, likely exhausted if I know our boy." Aramis settled back on his heels, disheveling his curls with a hand, "He's not going to enjoy it for the immediate future, but he'll be fine."

Athos let out a long slow breath as his world steadied again for the first time since he'd seen the Captain's missive. "That's... good. Very good. Thank you, Aramis." There was a solemn note in his voice that rang true like the distant bell of the cathedral. 

The medic nodded absently and then swayed. Alarmed, Athos reached out a hand to steady him but the Spaniard waved it away. "I'm fin. I'll need more rest later and I won't be winning any races right now, but I can hold for this." He gave a faint smile, "Better than inflicting your needlework on him at any rate."

Athos was still scowling when Porthos swaggered over, dusting his hand. "Well, have to give d'Art credit. Whoever's in there, ain't coming out. Not anytime soon, 'least. An' not without a lot of 'elp."

The admiration in his voice made Aramis smile as he bandaged another cut "Next time, we'll remind him to include you on the explosions."

Athos' face tightened at the mention of 'next time' but he wasn't foolish enough to deny it. He ducked his head down, resting it against d'Artagnan's as Aramis worked, taking a moment to just feel the shorn hair against his face and breathe. He hated being a step behind, having to catch up while d'Artagnan's life hung by a thread. If those bombs had gone off earlier...

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until his felt a warm hand on his arm and opened them to see Aramis peering intently at him. "Athos, I give you my word, based on what I can see now, he's going to be fine." He nodded sharply in response, trying to let go of the tension in his limbs. "We should move him to the inn so I can stitch those wounds and he can get a proper rest. He won't be fit for riding for a few days."

Athos swallowed a few times before speaking, "Porthos, you're certain about the rubble? From what d'Artagnan was trying to say... before, the ones behind all this were inside."

A wide grin split the bigger man's face, "Yeah, they're not going anywhere. Even most of the tiny windows have closed." 

Disdainful, Athos spared a cursory glance at the rubble, "Good. Let's get d'Artagnan somewhere safe so we can finish what he's started."  
__

Back at the inn, Athos found himself torn. At the very least, a message had to be sent to Treville and they needed to round up the Red Guards they'd seen that morning. That should serve as warning enough to the rest of them that there were no stupid attempts at rescue before Treville could get them some backup. And yet... He couldn't take his eyes off d'Artagnan's limp form as Aramis tended him on the bed. The Gascon hadn't stirred since they'd left the fortress, not even when Aramis had started to ply his needle. Bruises darkened his olive skin in various states of healing, leaving him a mottled patchwork of color against the pale blanket. 

Athos loathed to leave him. As if reading his mind, without turning, Aramis snapped out sharply, "Do you doubt my skills, brother?" The medic sighed and the flintlock on the pistol beside him glinted in the firelight. "I have found nothing to add to his litany of injuries barring some ugly bruises and more scrapes. As I said before, he will live. And I am well able to tend him while you tend to our remaining business."

The tone in his voice made Athos wince. He knew better. Aramis would not lie to him, not about this. The others loved d'Artagnan too; the younger man had entwined himself in all their lives, inextricably. He straightened, forcing his expression back to his usual stern neutral, and nodded sharply at Porthos, "We need to find a messenger and then get to the Guardhouse. If we can take the ones we saw this morning before dawn, I suspect any other conspirators will scatter now that the leaders are taken care of." 

The big man gave him a smile showing far too many teeth, his eyes glittering darkly, and the leather of his gloves crackling as he flexed his hands into fists. "I'm up for it. I want ta discuss those bruises with them. In depth." 

Athos quirked the barest hint of a smile at him before laying a gloved hand on d'Artagnan's brow. Gently, he brushed his hand back over his hair, curving down the side of his face to cradle it for just a moment before turning back to Porthos, "We should go. Once the taverns close, it'll be harder to get them alone."

"Good hunting," Aramis called after them as the two men slipped out of the room into the dark of the hall.  
__

Dawn was fast approaching before they returned to the rooms. The door opened with a low moan of its hinges and both men stilled at the sight of Aramis' drawn pistol.

"That's a... horrible way... to say hello."

All three men jumped at the unexpected rasp of d'Artagnan's voice. Athos was by his side before Aramis had even pulled his pistol, "You're awake."

The other man gave him a tired smile. Dark lashes were only barely lifted off his cheeks but Athos could see the glint of humor. "I take it that it worked?"

The relief that had softened Athos' face turned to a scowl, "You do not get to make plans without us." 

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to protest but Aramis was there, shifting him up for water before he could speak. "Ever."

He turned pleading eyes to Porthos but the bigger man crossed his arms across his chest, "Ever again."

After a few long drafts of cool water, d'Artagnan laid back with a sigh of contentment, "But it worked." A cocky grin stole across his face, driving some of the paleness away, "Which makes it an excellent plan." He shifted slightly and winced as lightning strikes of pain shot up from his chest. 

All three musketeers glared knowingly even as Porthos handed Aramis some more pillows and Athos lifted the younger man up so they could be propped underneath him to take the strain off his chest. Despite the aches and pains, d'Artagnan felt warmed as they flustered around him like a bunch of mother hens. He closed his eyes - he was still remarkably tired and it was so nice to know someone would have his back while he slept - and felt the rub of Athos' calluses as his broad hand took his. 

The shadow of the older man fell over him like a blanket as Athos leaned closer and his free hand started stroking d'Artagnan's head. "It was a horrible plan." The low voice reached his ear but, despite the older man's words, d'Artagnan could almost feel the relief pouring off him. "But the ones you trapped are almost certainly dead and we have captured or permanently scared off the rest." Athos fingers smoothed the stubble of his hair. "You have done well, d'Artagnan." 

There was an infinite well of fondness in that tone. A caring beyond anything d'Artagnan had dared hoped for after the death of his father. He felt the warmth of Athos settle in next to his shoulders like a cloak. The bed dipped - Aramis sitting beside his legs, his steady hands gently changing his bandages. "Next time," the amusement layered in the medic's tone, "wait for Porthos' for the explosion." 

Porthos' hand closed around his ankle, another anchor of warmth, weaving around him like a blanket. "Yeah, it's not fair to keep all the fun for yourself." 

D'Artagnan tried to open the eyes he didn't remember closing but the feelings of safety, warmth, caring, and love were far too seductive and he surrendered to a healing sleep, knowing that when he woke, they would still be by his side.


End file.
